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by abelslade2319
Summary: Coming back with the three war heroes is not all it seems and Aramis has to find where he fits with the men he once called brothers, and reconcile the men he knew four years ago with the men they have become.
1. Aramis

_Aramis_

"d'Art?"

The deep concern in his friend's voice drew Athos' sharp gaze, but Aramis' sole attention was on the pained brown eyes of their youngest brother. He made to reach for him but d'Artagnan somehow paled even further and shrunk away from him, gasping as his broken ribs protested the movement and sent more blood flowing from the knife wound to his lower abdomen.

"P'thos," he murmured, his voice as shaky as the rest of him, his eyes searching frantically around him for the one man not yet present.

"d'Art!" Aramis heard Porthos' anguished call from behind him, turning in time to catch Athos' crumpled face seconds before Porthos shoved his way past both of them, the burly man crowding past Aramis to get in d'Artagnan's line of sight.

"P'thos," the kid breathed, finally relaxing as the Musketeer he'd been calling for slipped his arm behind d'Artagnan's back and held him up against his broad chest.

"I got you, d'Art," Porthos assured, and the man seemed to melt into the embrace as Porthos arranged himself around his younger brother. "I got you."

"Porthos?" Aramis asked, his hands clenching and unclenching where he held them pressed against his thighs, not wanting to frighten d'Artagnan but needing to see how badly he was hurt.

The big man shook his head, "Give 'im a minute, Aramis," he said, cupping d'Art's head close to his chest.

Aramis looked beseechingly at Athos but no help was forthcoming from their Captain. His icy blue eyes held Aramis' steadily, arms folded across his chest as he stood waiting for the questions he knew were coming.

"What is happening?" Aramis asked, throwing his hands up in frustration and settling back on the balls of his feet as he relented to his brothers' stares. "He's never been like this, he wouldn't even let me touch him Athos."

"Me either," Athos said quietly and earned a shocked look from Aramis. d'Artagnan would do anything for Athos, but to deny his mentor touch was like cutting the legs out from under the man. Athos nodded slowly to himself, as if he knew what Aramis was thinking, and he took in the sight of Porthos' large body wrapped protectively around the lax form of d'Artagnan, the young man completely pliant in the gentle giant's tender embrace.

"It scares 'im," Porthos said, his eyes pinned to the wall somewhere over Aramis' shoulder as he spoke, lost in a memory only he could see.

"What does?" Aramis asked after nothing else seemed forthcoming, already knowing and dreading the answer but needing the man to voice it.

Porthos looked at him then, his dark eyes pits of cold, unadulterated fury as he spat, "Pain. Touch."

"But Port-"

"The only reason 'e tolerates me is cause I found 'im, Aramis. All trussed up like you wouldn't believe, bloody and broken, 'e was. I thought 'im dead before I laid 'ands on him and even then I couldn't believe it. So much blood," Porthos broke off in a whisper, tightening his arms around his charge as memories assailed him.

"The Spanish took him close to two years ago, now. He was scouting out to the west of camp one morning and never came back. We spent three weeks searching for him. Time and again we came up empty and I was forced to give up the search. But we kept looking wherever we went, until Porthos stumbled upon him in a Spanish encampment miles to the north of where we'd lost his trail. By then the damage was done. He'd had both shoulders dislocated, his right wrist was broken, multiple ribs were broken or cracked, there was an infected knife wound to his thigh, and he was covered in bruises and cuts. It's a miracle he's alive, is what it is," Athos stepped in when he saw Porthos wouldn't. "But no matter what we did, he wouldn't let anyone tend him but Porthos, even when he was delirious with fever and blood loss, the lad wouldn't even let _me_ touch him.

"It wasn't until a few weeks later, when his body was nigh on healed that he allowed me to put a hand on him," the Captain said. "It's nothing you've done, Aramis, but Porthos has become his safety net when he's wounded and hurting. Not even I could get through to him right now, and believe me, I've tried. Whenever he's wounded he gets like this; won't stand touch unless it's Porthos.

"We don't question it anymore," Athos continued, as if it was a simple fact of life. "I couldn't send one into the field without the other, for fear of d'Art getting wounded without Porthos. He gets violent, nearly took off a couple of my fingers the first time I tried to tend him without Porthos around. After that it was hard to deny that d'Art has a finite capacity for others' touch when he's overwhelmed and in pain, beginning and ending with Porthos."

"'M sorry."

Both men's gazes went to the young man still enveloped in Porthos in surprise.

"Nothing to be sorry for, d'Art," Porthos assured his brother. "I got you." He said it as if that was the end of the conversation, and to the three of them it was. d'Artagnan had been through hell and if Porthos' presence helps even the slightest bit, they were all more than willing to make the concession; even though it physically pained Athos and Aramis to be on the sidelines when it came to their injured brother. But they all understood trauma and what it did to a person, Aramis most of all. Savoy haunts him still, tearing him from pleasant dreams and sending him into his own private hell more often than he would care to admit, even to himself.

"Mmmm," was the only response the trio got through d'Artagnan clenched his teeth as another wave of pain assailed his fragile body.

"Right," Porthos murmured, gently unfolding his long limbs from around the young man and leaned him against the wall. "Ribs and knife wound to your abdomen. Anything else I should be aware of?" he asked the ailing d'Art.

"Think I hit my head," d'Artagnan revealed after he'd gotten his breath back, small puffs of air marking each shaky exhale in the cool room.

Aramis struggled to keep his hands to himself as Porthos went about assessing d'Artagnan's injuries and wrapping his abdomen and ribs so they could be better cared for back at the garrison. He'd never been regulated to observer in a situation such as this and he was surprised with the anger, jealousy, and sadness that shot through him as Porthos treated d'Art with a care and knowledge he did not possess four years previous.

"I wasn't lyin' when I told you we learned to live without you, Aramis," Porthos told him, not having to see the marksman to know what he was thinking. He'd known the man too long for that and old habits die hard, don't they? They used to read each other from across the room in the blink of an eye and even after four years, Aramis hadn't changed overly much. He was still the same smooth-talking, womanizing, devoted bastard Porthos had known for years, but Porthos was the first to admit that war had changed him. War had changed the three of them. d'Artagnan probably the most, but they were all different.

Porthos had mellowed, his boisterous laugh and eternal optimism were contained behind a hard shield that protected him from the horrors of war. His protective nature had been shot into overdrive as soon as he saw the blood running down their Gascon's face after that first battle and he'd kept close to the young man whenever possible. That was one good thing about d'Art's romp with the Spanish – both Athos and Porthos actively kept him close and the young Musketeer didn't bat an eyelash. They'd all had a rude awakening and the need to keep each other close and safe was nearly overpowering. Even as Captain of the regiment, Athos kept his two brothers as close as possible, whenever possible.

Athos had quit drinking excessively, his constant companion in wine no longer as soothing as the presence of his two brothers in his tent sharing a casual glass or two. The days where he woke up hungover were few and far between, especially after those fretful three weeks when he drunk himself into a stupor on more than one occasion after coming to the realization their courageous Gascon had been taken and was likely strung up in some Spanish camp being tortured, even as he drank the last drop of wine in the bottle and fell into a fitful sleep that only lasted a maximum of three hours no matter how much he drank.

d'Artagnan was still his impetuous self, but he thought of the consequences to anything he did. You could see the calculating look in his eyes whenever he received orders – the choice to disobey or obey was no longer black and white. And d'Artagnan had become a master at misconstruing the true meaning of his orders without completely disregarding them; he rarely was faced with such a dilemma but when he was even Athos dared not tempt dissuade him from his chosen course of action. The young man had become volatile on the field, a hero to the young Musketeers and a beacon of hope for the seasoned veterans. He fought like a man possessed, felling enemy soldiers as though they were a nuisance to simply be swatted away. Athos had thought on many occasion that if the two were to fight to the death, Athos would be the one meeting his ancestors and not his young protégé.

The Musketeers rallied around d'Artagnan like they did Athos, but for an entirely different reason. Athos was their leader by title and rank, he was respected and loved by his men. But d'Artagnan was the heart and spirit of the regiment. Just one look into the fiery depths of his eyes and you are swept up in his thirst for justice and love of life. Even after everything he had been through, there was no doubt in any Musketeer's mind that he was the best of them.

But he also became quiet. He wasn't so quick to offer words of praise or correction to the recruits, nor speak up in times of debate between older Musketeers. When he spoke it carried weight and people tended to listen.

On the contrary, Athos had found himself speaking more, delegating tasks, handing out assignments, receiving information, dealing with higher-ups, the list went on. And as the Gascon's voice receded, the swordsman's burst forth with surprising fluidity for a man who had essentially been a functional mute for a good portion of his life.

Aramis had noticed some of these things upon his return to Paris with his beloved brothers, but their new selves were hard to reconcile with the three men he'd parted ways with four years previous.

Even as they mounted their horses, d'Artagnan allowing himself to be placed in front of Porthos, and Nuit to be led by the marksman, it was difficult for Aramis not to miss the outspoken and heard-headed boy who had burst into the garrison demanding Athos' life in reparation for the loss of his father. This d'Artagnan spoke of his injuries freely to Porthos, allowed the older man to help him with things he would have, in the past, fiercely objected to. Aramis had never seen the Gascon submit to riding paired on a horse with any of them unless he was deeply unconscious or likely soon to be.

Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan all accepted the change as if it was nothing, as if the young man had always put his head above his heart. As if it hadn't been beat into him by Spanish thugs that sought information from a downed Musketeer on his own. As if d'Artagnan's sudden shift in priorities was a fact as much as Porthos' previous "I've got you" was.

But they were still the men Aramis loved. They still laughed and joked together. Porthos still got that gleam in his eye every time he bested someone in hand-to-hand, d'Artagnan still had that twinkle of mischief in his eye when he was relaxed and that soft look he reserved only for dear, sweet Constance, and Athos still allowed his smile to broaden whenever he saw his brothers at their antics.

Aramis had missed them, shut away in the monastery, so far from everything, so apart from the world. He'd missed his family, but most of all he had missed Porthos and his infectious grin and generous nature. Now he had to find out if Porthos had it in him to truly forgive him. The words had been spoken after they'd laid in the dirt and laughed about blowing the bridge, but the actions of the three war heroes were so in sync with one another Aramis felt as though he were an outsider all over again searching for a home amongst men who had known each other for lifetimes and had no need of another.

"d'Artagnan!"

Aramis was pulled from his reverie as he heard Constance's worried cry of her husband's name. The marksman looked to where the Gascon slumped against Porthos, relaxed in the larger man's hold. He was pale and drawn, and his eyes were creased with pain, but they opened instantly after hearing his wife's call. Aramis watched in grim consternation as Constance drew closer, waiting for the inevitable flinch from the young man, away from her and into Porthos. But before she even reached them, Constance stopped and twisted her hands in the flowing skirt at her waist, her eyes flickering from Porthos to d'Artagnan. Aramis' jaw dropped slightly.

She knew.

She knew and Aramis hadn't.

God, if she'd known, why was it he hadn't?

 _There is time for self-recriminations later_ , Aramis berated himself, slipping from his mount with practiced ease before turning once more to the duo still on horseback. Porthos slid from behind d'Artagnan with fluid grace before swiftly aiding the ailing man from the saddle and onto solid ground, accepting the Gascon's weight as he gathered himself.

Aramis drew closer as Constance's eyes teared, "Are you alright?" she asked lowly.

All of them, save Porthos, were surprised then, when d'Artagnan stepped from the safety Porthos offered and wrapped his arms around his wife without so much as a hesitation.

The question itself was answered with that acceptance and offering of comfort.

Constance buried her head in her husband's neck, silent tears trailing down her delicate cheeks, but a smile on her face. Porthos and Athos both wore matching smiles that threatened to crack their faces in half, content in the knowledge their brother was slowly but surely coming back to them. And Aramis, Aramis realized that no matter how damaged they seemed, the three men who had spent so long at war were more whole now than they ever had been. Because now they were all together again. In Paris. In the garrison. At home.


	2. Constance

_Constance_

Constance watched her husband sleep, his shallow breathing testament to the discomfort the broken ribs were causing. His left hand was clutched loosely in her own while his right rested lightly over the stab wound in his abdomen. The pale cast of the bandages in the low light of the night was a stark contrast to the dark skin of d'Artagnan's torso and she shuddered with the thought of how close she had come to losing him.

He'd been hurt before, yes, but those were mere skirmishes and he'd had a glancing blow or two. And when he was hurt worse was on the front lines with Athos and Porthos and she'd been unable to offer her comfort or be confronted with the fact he was very mortal and could be stripped from this world just as quickly as anyone else. It was hard to see past the devil-may-care attitude and seemingly unstoppable force that he presented to the world. But he was a man underneath the bravado. A simple man who bled for what he believed in, would give his life for it if the need arose.

Her attention was drawn once more to the man at her side as he shifted, a flash of pain crossing his features before her free hand went to his brow to soothe away the crease there. She rested her palm gently on his forehead for a moment, heart softening as the man she loved leaned into her touch, his face once again serene with sleep.

 _What am I going to do with you d'Artagnan_ , Constance asked herself shaking her head in fond exasperation. There was no doubt in her mind he would be raring to go in the morning, as if he hadn't been severely wounded the previous day.

Constance always loved seeing her Musketeer riding tall on Nuit, graceful and lithe as he maneuvered his mount with the ease born with comfort and confidence. The moment he had set foot in the garrison, back from war, she'd thought things would be different. They'd only been married a few short minutes before he'd been called off to duty, and she wasn't sure how they would accommodate the time and distance between them when he returned.

But there was no hesitation with the man, no second thoughts, as he immediately swept her in his arms and held her close. All her reservations of who they were apart and who they would be together vanished. Their love had not diminished over the years, nor had it changed, it had just grown fond with memories and the promises of tomorrow. After all that time, their tomorrow had finally come.

d'Artagnan still held her with the care of a man holding something fragile but made love to her with the passion only he could offer. He gave himself, everything he had and was, to her. He let her see him for all that he was, mental and physical scars and all. He shared the good times with Porthos and Athos at his side. He shared the bad times where he was alone and scared he'd not see the light of the next day. He shared the times when there was nothing to do for weeks on end and he and Porthos could find little else to do amuse themselves than clean their weapons until they shone. And then do it again.

The one thing he had seemed remotely hesitant to share with her was when he had been captured by the Spanish. She understood his hesitation. She had seen his body, knew the physical scars that one ordeal had left him with. What she could not have imagined was the psychological scarring that marked him a changed man even now.

His aversion to touch was immediately noticed, as d'Artagnan had not rode into the garrison sans injury. He was littered with bruises and a bullet graze on his right shoulder. Athos had gone to try and assist in the younger man's dismount when Constance had seen d'Artagnan flinch swiftly away from his mentor, a flash of horror and shame flashing across his handsome face before he could control it. She'd watched him quietly apologize and swing down from Nuit of his own volition. Constance had wanted to run to him, then, take him in her arms and never let him go so he could never again have that look on his face again. She'd seen it on other men but she had never, not ever, wanted to see it on d'Artagnan. It was in that moment she vowed she never would again.

It had not taken long for him to search the garrison and find her, stock still and waiting for the return of her husband. His eyes lit with a fiery determination and he cast aside everything else, moving with a swift and graceful gate that belied his obvious discomfort. He sidestepped every hand of welcome and greeting, fleeing the touch into the arms of the woman he loved. Here he offered no such aversion to touch as he drew her as close to him as he could get her, her cheek pressed against his heart and thanking whatever god had been watching over him to allow him to come home to her.

"I love you," he told her, his face buried in her dark tresses, one hand on her lower back and the other cupping the back of her head.

"God, I love you too," she whispered, arms wrapped around his middle and just enjoying the physical contact she had longed for these past years.

They stood as one for a few more minutes, just _being_ , but eventually they had to reenter reality and they pulled away from each other, soft smiles on faces that had gone too long without.

Only then did Constance see the surprised look on the returned Musketeers' faces. She leaned to her left and asked, "What's with them?"

She had regretted the question as soon as it had passed her lips when her husband's face darkened and he met her gaze with the look of a man who had seen and lived too much. "Oh, d'Art," she murmured, gripping his hand tightly until he looked her in the eye. "I've got you, now, love," she told him.

"Thank you," he said lowly, and quirked his mouth in a fraction of a smile that left as quickly as it came when he offered his eyes turned serious once again. "There are things I did not tell you in my letters, things . . ."

"That are best left until you're ready to tell me," Constance finished, a resolve in her voice even she wasn't expecting, but knew d'Artagnan needed. She gave it willingly, not caring how long it would take, just knowing it would when he was ready. And she damn well wasn't going to push him on something that obviously terrified him.

"Thank you," he repeated, drawing her close once more before they were surrounded by the rest of the Inseparables and Constance offered her open arms to all three of them.

After that it was little things, him avoiding Athos when he had a run-in with the Red Guard, edgy like she'd never seen before when he offered his assistance with his bruised and cut arm. d'Artagnan had declined and sought out Porthos, who was only too happy to help out the Gascon, much to Aramis' obvious displeasure. The man hadn't been with them for long but had seemed to keep a distance from the other three, as if he couldn't quite figure out where he belonged. He seemed oblivious to the fact that there was an underlying reason to why d'Artagnan declined Athos' help and instead headed to Porthos, whom everyone knew tried to avoid anything remotely medical like it was the plague. If only he'd seen past the façade the three put on for everyone's benefit, if only he could have seen the deep, raw pain that d'Artagnan tried to hide.

But Constance understood the comfort of someone's tender care after trauma. She knew what it was because to her it was always d'Artagnan. It was always him who saved her. He came into her life at a time she had convinced herself she was happy. Her marriage was a loveless one, but she was taken care of, knew her business, and was respected. Honestly, a woman couldn't ask for more, could she? So she thought. And then she'd had an armful of impetuous d'Artagnan and couldn't seem to shake him.

He showed her what love was, how a man should treat a woman when he respected her, taught her to defend herself because he knew he couldn't always be there to protect her and didn't want to her to fall prey to those who would wish her harm. He helped her find position with the Queen even after Constance had turned him away. It was the measure of a man who could look beyond the devoted wife she pretended to be and see the desperately unhappy woman who lurked beneath. He offered her solace when she thought there was none and a warm embrace to come home to when she realized she had been deluding herself thinking she could ever live without him.

So to say that she understood was an understatement. And when the truth finally made itself known, there was nothing but compassion and love for her husband, who had come home to her despite the odds.

The hand in hers twitched and Constance's gaze was drawn to the sleepy man at her side, affection welling inside her as he shifted closer to her. He moved slowly, even in sleep prepared for pain, but somehow managed to roll nearly half on top of her, tugging her closer with an arm around her waist and tucking his face in the crook of her neck. Constance welcomed the warmth and love in the action, snuggling carefully into his chest in response and smiled when he let out a contented sigh and settled.

His weight was reassuring against her, the steady beat of his heart lulling her into a half sleep. She was startled, then, when he spoke, "I can hear you thinking. I've got you, and I'm not going anywhere. I promise. I'll be here when you wake up." d'Artagnan's voice was rough with sleep but carried nothing but a soothing amusement and reassurance.

Constance let out the breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding, as if she was afraid he'd disappear if she closed her eyes for too long. They'd slept together each night since he'd been home and yet she still expected to be dropped right in the middle of her own personal hell come morning, sans d'Artagnan.

The reassurance he so freely offered, the comfort of his body against hers, was all it took for her heart to start to slow, her eyelids to become heavy, and her body to sink into a lethargy so heavy she dared not fight it or else be smothered by its weight.

He'd be there in the morning.

She knew it. He knew it.

Because he'd promised.

And Charles d'Artagnan kept his promises.


	3. Athos

_Athos_

The pain of rejection had soured his demeanor despite the reassurance he wasn't the one at fault. The inability to comfort his brother ate away at the Captain until it was all he could do to keep his hands to himself when d'Artagnan struggled to do something he'd have done without a moment's thought a month past.

Athos knew the pain of torture. He knew what it was to feel the helplessness of being unable to help yourself out of a situation you didn't ask for but always knew was an inevitability in his chosen line of work. The Comte de La Fere was nothing if not steadfast but there were some things that broke down even his walls; a hurt and vulnerable d'Artagnan was one of those things.

The lad had gotten under his skin from the moment he'd barged in and offered his heart on a platter and an accusation on his lips. The resemblance to his younger brother notwithstanding, it was hard for Athos to see how such a young man could go through the pain and heartbreak of being the last of his line and have nowhere else to go. Aramis and Porthos took to him like he'd simply been away and they'd been expecting the lad's return. Athos had tried to stay detached, it's true. He'd tried so hard to avoid the day when he could no longer be as cool and aloof with d'Artagnan's wellbeing as he was with other recruits. Athos didn't last a day.

He doesn't regret it for a moment.

d'Artagnan was wet behind the ears when the trio set off for war, a sparkle in his eye and a jump in his step. Athos and Porthos both knew the toll of war, knew what it was to take life and be caught in the melee that was surging animals, carnage, and death. They knew they were about to strip what made their Gascon the lovable man he was and replace it with something dark. As of yet he was untested in the eyes of war, a young man with ideals and morals that were soon to be turned on their head so he could live with the atrocities he would commit.

Athos had been proven right that very first battle, but there had been surprises as well. d'Artagnan may have been green, naïve, and hardly able to put two and two together about what people said of war and the harsh reality he'd been dropped in the middle of, but he was a King's Musketeer. On the battlefield he'd been deliberately positioned between his brothers, their protective nature blatantly asserting itself. But he didn't complain. He knew the need to protect his brothers at all cost.

They'd charged the enemy with strategic abandon per Athos' cry, and within seconds both Athos and Porthos were drawn into combat and lost from d'Artagnan's sight. It wasn't until later that he realized how much he had depended on the Inseparables before that first bloody spectacle. They had shielded him from the worst of it, because he was young or inexperienced, he didn't know nor did he care. Faced with it then, he'd been hard pressed to see the reason behind it all. But as soon as he saw the face of a fallen brother, eyes open in shock, glued forever to the moon that shed scant light upon their ravaged field of battle, d'Artagnan was confronted with the twisted face of war head on. And he realized with sick fascination that he was sadly unprepared for the onslaught of terror and death he was doomed to reign down on his enemy.

And they dared declare this a win.

As if losing countless brothers was a win.

As if the infirmary tent chock full of injured Musketeers was a win.

As if the loss of d'Artagnan's faith in humanity was a win.

To the General, to the King, they had won their first battle.

To Athos, to Porthos, to d'Artagnan, to the entire regiment . . . there was nothing to celebrate. They'd be on a field just like this one come next week, fighting men that would meet the same fate, lose more brothers, and be ordered to move on as if they hadn't left their best friend behind in the dirt because the cause was more important than a single soldier.

Athos, unaccustomed to sole command of an entire regiment, struggled to balance his need for Porthos and d'Artagnan to be safe and the need to use them to their full potential. After a heated argument with Porthos that nearly came to blows, he grudgingly admitted he'd been endeavoring to shield their younger brother from the true brutality of war. It took Porthos' incredulous, "What the hell are you thinking, Athos? The lad 'as seen the hell that we've stepped into the very night we drew up arms. d'Artagnan isn't as fragile as you seem to think. You've seen 'im on the field," Porthos growled, gesturing wildly with eyes aflame with anger, "You've seen the men rally around him when he charges heedlessly through the ranks of the Spanish. 'e may not like it, 'e may despise it, but the lad was born for this, Athos. There's no escaping it. So why can't you see that 'e needs to be out there, fighting the war 'e came here for, rather than sitting in camp and being coddled by a man 'e's looked up to since the moment 'e laid eyes on you?"

Athos had stood there, shocked, well after Porthos had stormed out. He knew the truth in his friend's words, knew he needed to treat d'Artagnan as he would every other soldier. But that was so much easier said than done. The full weight of command settled on his shoulders and he nearly buckled with the weight. He wanted it gone, wanted to be fighting side-by-side with his brothers on every field, as was his rightful place. He couldn't look after his brothers when he had to split them up more often than not because there were so few trained and battle ready Musketeers that didn't already have vital positions.

The young Gascon, it seemed, would have to step up and Athos would have to step back. Because Porthos was right, the men did tend to see d'Artagnan as an impromptu leader when in the heat of battle. And Athos had to admit that he, himself, was often spurred into action at the sight of d'Artagnan swinging into battle like an avenging angel, his movements swift and graceful but deadly. Just as Athos had taught him. But Athos couldn't remember a day he'd moved as fluidly as d'Artagnan seemed to.

Four short months later, d'Artagnan had gone missing and everything had fallen apart.

The two remaining of the Inseparables struggled to function without the young Gascon. It was as if their heart and soul had been ripped away in one foul swoop and left behind to shells of men. Athos took to the bottle and Porthos swept into battle with a carefree attitude that would have enraged Athos if he didn't do the same.

Three weeks came and went with no leads to d'Artagnan's whereabouts. The lad had just up and disappeared, it seemed, but neither were ready to pack up camp and move on completely. Not until they had d'Artagnan in their grasp, dead or alive. They raged when orders came down the grape vine to move on. They saw red when they were told the life of one Musketeer did not take precedence over the entire regiment. But to disobey direct orders went against every honorable bone in the men's bodies and they dutifully moved on.

At the end of those dreadful weeks, it was pure chance that Porthos stumbled upon the bloody and broken form of their brother in a Spanish encampment and stole him away again. The joy at being reunited with d'Artagnan was quickly overpowered by the urgent need for medical attention, testament to the limp quality of the man in Porthos' arms as soon as he swung down from his saddle frantic pleas for help falling from his lips as he moved quickly to the infirmary.

When the medic, a man who had recently joined them and had yet to be met by either Porthos or Athos, manipulated the Gascon's shoulders, Porthos thought they'd set the poor lad aflame the screams were that heartbreaking. It didn't take a genius to figure that the boy hated touch, however, and Athos couldn't keep the shock from permeating his entire being when d'Artagnan physically reacted to his offers of comfort that had, in the past, been so welcome. The young man came up from the cot with immense force, throwing both Athos and the newcomer off balance and they reeled backwards, immediately setting forwards once more when they saw the frantic movements of their patient.

It took some convincing on Porthos' part, but eventually they got d'Art convinced he wouldn't be touched by anyone other than him. The lad had submitted to unconsciousness after a valiant effort to battle it, and Porthos had immediately told the medic to get on with it before the young man woke up again.

The toll on the Gascon's body was great, but he would heal, the medic assured them, given time and rest. It was the psychological torture Athos knew would take the longest to heal. The poor boy was delirious with blood loss, pain, and a slowly growing fever, and he still couldn't abide someone touching him. That didn't bide well for when he awoke properly.

After that Athos was hard pressed to get Porthos to be out of sight of d'Art, and vice versa. d'Artagnan continued to struggle with anyone's physical contact besides Porthos'. He seemed to know it was irrational and often needed reassurance that it was entirely natural, but he could stop that no more than he could the incessant rain that had plagued the countryside for the past five days.

Athos had seen it before, that desperate need to take life into your own hands once more, but being unable to control the body's reactions no matter how hard you tried. He'd been there, himself, and dealt with it with copious amounts of alcohol.

d'Artagnan seemed to find his comfort in Porthos, and while irrationally jealous and endlessly hoping one day things would change, Athos couldn't fault the kid for picking the big man. He was affectionate to a point, offering hugs and greetings in spades, but the man had a huge heart and would give himself completely to d'Artagnan. It seemed d'Art had latched onto that fact and was completely unaffected by Porthos' touch and ministrations.

As it was, it took weeks before Athos, without completely thinking things through, gripped d'Artagnan's shoulder in restraint. He withdrew it immediately, waiting for the whole body flinch that usually followed, but it didn't come. His eyes went to his protégé's face and he was shocked when a small smile played on the younger man's features.

"It's okay," d'Artagnan had said. "I'm not in pain," he had continued, as if that explained everything. And it did, to Athos, who needed few words to begin with, it made complete sense.

After that, he ensured Porthos was always around d'Artagnan on the battlefield, made sure they were looked after by each other because that was the only way either seemed able to receive medical attention. They both learned quickly and grew proficient at providing and receiving the others' attention. Athos knew to keep his hands to himself when d'Art was in pain and that his touch was welcome when there was none. With few adjustments, the trio settled into life.

But the three weeks were never forgotten, and sitting up in his bed in the garrison, the moon his only companion, Athos still finds it hard to believe that they've come full circle. They'd started here, with Treville at the helm, and now here they were; Constance had run the garrison as well as she was able and done a commendable job at that, Aramis was back with them from the monastery, changed but somehow the same as he once was, Porthos reveled in grappling with youngsters and teaching them the art of hand-to-hand, and d'Art had quickly settled into finding comfort in his beautiful wife and setting his quick mind to the war they'd stumbled upon in Paris.

Yes, Athos knew what it was to be tortured, what it was like to feel fear every time you close your eyes because there was the distinct possibility your rescue and the subsequent care and compassion had been a dream and you'd wake up back in hell. Athos knew what it was to dread the night and the sleep that accompanied it. It's why he had fallen into the bottle on more than one occasion. His past had reared its ugly head and he fought it the only way he knew how, the bottle.

The Gascon had helped him rid himself of his _need_ for the comforts of wine.

His protégé had showed him what it was to live again.

His brother had taken him into his heart and accepted him, flaws and all, unconditionally.

Athos would do the same for the young man from Gascony. He would offer him an understanding smile when d'Art shot him an apologetic look in deference to his preference for Porthos in times of pain and fear. He would offer him a protective barrier between him and the rest of the world because sometimes it was too much and Athos would never allow someone to hurt his little brother.

Athos would love him as his own family because that's what family did, no matter the obstacles, the circumstance.


End file.
